


The Sergeant and the Brat

by BippittyBoppityGoAway



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Avengers Family, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Deaf Clint Barton, Dom Bucky Barnes, Dom/sub, F/M, Past Abuse, Protective Bruce Banner, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, Protective Tony Stark, Spanking, Vaginal Sex, We DO NOT stan Brock Rumlow in this house, he can burn in hell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:35:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26981497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BippittyBoppityGoAway/pseuds/BippittyBoppityGoAway
Summary: Anne is a lonely submissive that recently escaped an abusive relationship with Brock Rumlow. Her brother, Clint Barton, offers to have her stay with him in New York for protection. Will she finally be safe?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	1. Alamort

**Author's Note:**

> Alamort (adj): half-dead of exhaustion

Anne sighs as she climbs out of her old car, and shoulders her satchel. It has been a long day, but it will be even longer if Brock had decided to get drunk. This was the case for most nights. Sober Brock was loving and attentive. This Brock always brought home the most beautiful flowers and the best chocolates. Who cared if the previous night he had turned into a monster? Surely, not Anne because being with him was better than being on her own with no one to drop her. Who cared if Brock never provided aftercare even though she had open wounds from the harsh tails of his flogger? How she loathed that thing, but she knew that her safeword would help with nothing. But she put up with it. Because after all, wasn't this her fault? She deserved worse. If she was a perfect submissive, this would never happen. Brock would have no reason to harm her. But she wasn't a perfect sub, was she? At least, that was _her_ justification. 

She takes the rickety old stairs up to her apartment, wincing every time the strap of the satchel dug into a freshly scabbed over wound. Hopefully tonight would be different. Maybe tonight Brock would be sober, and would hold her gently and tell her how loved she is.

Anne hears the bed creaking as she enters into her dingy apartment with sparse furniture. She thinks nothing of it, and gingerly sets her satchel down. She slowly unpins her hair from the tight bun required of her by her waitressing job, making sure that it was flowing down her back just how Brock liked it. In his eyes, it was made for pulling, and who cares if Anne didn’t really enjoy it? She gingerly opens the bedroom door to see Brock’s naked back thrusting into her best friend, Gabrielle.

Gabrielle catches her eye and smirks. Anne softly closes the door as she feels tears brimming in her eyes. When did Brock stop loving her? Did he ever love her? What part of her wasn’t enough? Why did he have to hurt her? Why did he have to hurt her, yet treat Gabrielle so gently? What did she do to deserve this?

Making a resolute decision, Anne hastily gathers her satchel and storms out of the apartment with tears streaming down her face. She let the door slam behind her. She shakes her head as her mind goes far away:

_She smiles as she runs excitedly into the apartment, the door slamming behind her. It didn’t matter that the furniture was dingy and sometimes the water heater didn’t work. They had each other and that was enough. Brock was in a slightly less cheerful mood than normal. His forehead had a crease that made him look twenty years older. But he would never hurt her without her consent. He loved her._

_“Brock, honey! I got the job! I got the job at Dinah’s!” Anne shouts happily, taking off her coat and shoes._

_Brock turns sharply, “Anne! What have I told you about slamming the goddamn door?!”_

_She stops abruptly, “Brock, dear, but I—”_

_Brock’s hand flies out, his class ring connecting sharply with her cheek, “But nothing! You will address me as Sir! You worthless whore!”_

_Tears well up in her eyes as she whimpers in pain, “Y-yes, Sir. I’m sorry. I—”_

_“You’re SORRY? Sorry? That’s pathetic,” Brock mocks sadistically. “You need to be punished.”_

_Her head shoots up, “But, Sir! I haven’t done anything worth punishing!”_

_His eyes fill with rage, and she whimpers. He has never been like this before. He was always gentle and loving. Sure, he was stern and had rules. Rules like I must never eat more than 2 meals, or I must never talk to Clint._

_“And who exactly decides if something is worth punishing? Surely not the submissive, hm?” Brock says. “Go to the Room. Clothes off and kneeling by the cross.”_

_He loved her. Loved. He used to love her._

Anne’s hands shake as she remembers that night. Why didn’t she leave sooner? Where was she to go? Now she is nothing more than a statistic. Clint had warned her about Brock. Maybe she could call Clint. Would he even pick up? It had been three years. The last time they spoke was during an argument over Brock.

Anne is still shaking as she enters the driver’s seat of her car. She fumbles for her phone and nervously presses Clint’s contact.

The phone rings twice before the dial tone stops, “Clint Barton. Who am I speaking with?”

“Hi, Clint. It’s Anne. I understand if you don’t want to see me or much less speak to me, but please hear me out,” She says panicked.

Clint pauses, “I’m listening.”

She takes a deep calming breath, “I’ve left Brock. H-he cheated on me and he’s been beating me. I have nowhere to go. You were right about him. I’m scared, and it’s my fault.”

Anne’s breaths start coming out in shaky sobs. It’s becoming harder to think.

Clint speaks, using a tinge of his dom voice, “Anne! Listen to me. It is NOT your fault. It is his and his alone. You are in no condition to drive. Is it still the same address?”

“Y-yes. I’m sorry, Clint. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” Anne shakily replies through her sobs.

Clint sighs, “I’ll be there in a few, Rabbit.”


	2. Anagapesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anagapesis (n): no longer have any feelings for one you once loved

Anne shivers as she waits for Clint. Her eyes fill with tears of scorching shame. This never should have happened. She never should have let Brock hurt her like that. It was all her fault. She was just a pathetic submissive. Clint probably thinks she is worthless. She should have listened to him. The scorching tears trail black mascara streaks down her face and sting at her eyes as she remembers their last conversation:

_Clint’s tone is gentle and he’s still wearing his tactical gear from a S.H.I.E.L.D. mission, “Anne, I’m worried for you. He’s trying to cut you off from your friends and family.”_

_“He’s just doing what’s best for me! He’s my dominant!” Anne says sharply, her eyes filled with cold rage._

_Clint growls out of frustration, “Are you fucking serious? Can’t you see what he’s doing to you? How can you—”_

_Anne’s eyes harden, “I swear, if you say another word, I’ll leave.”_

_Clint’s jaw ticks out of annoyance, “So be it. If you’re not willing to listen to truth, I have no purpose here.”_

God. She should have listened to him. He was right. Clint was right about everything. But no! She had to be red-green colorblind, and all of the red flags looked a shade of grey.

Anne eases the leather strap of her satchel from her shoulder, absently rubbing the throbbing wound from the previous night. Brock never let her seek medical attention after punishments. He said that it was because worthless submissive whores didn’t deserve medical attention. But this is different. Brock is no longer her dominant. Maybe Clint would let her get her shoulder taken care of. But maybe Clint would let her suffer as a punishment for not listening. At least Clint would be nice, he wouldn’t add to the pain.

Clint’s car pulls up beside her, and Clint gets out. He inspects her face under the dim parking garage lighting. God she must look atrocious. Her tears had washed away some of her concealer, revealing grotesque but slowly fading bruises under her eyes. He moves to rest his hand on her shoulder, but Anne flinches violently. The tears stream down even faster.

Clint’s face fills with concern, “Anne. I’m sorry this happened to you. I don’t need to know exactly what happened, but I do know that NONE of it was your fault. Let’s get you to my home and get you some medical attention. What do you say, little rabbit?”

Anne’s voice shakes, “I-I don’t deserve medical attention. I’m a bad sub. It is all my fault.”

His jaw ticks, a sign of thinly veiled anger, "No, Anne. It is not your fault. It is Brock's fault. I must warn you that I live with three other dominants and two switches. If we need to, I will find an apartment for us."

"I should be fine," She says, her arms wrapping tightly around her midsection. 

Clint nods, "Steve, Bucky, and Natasha are all dominants. Steve is a bit oblivious and doesn't really understand pop culture references. Bucky can be a bit stern, and a tad bit of a sarcastic asshole. But he's a good guy. He has had his fair share of bad experiences, but I'll let him tell you what happened if he wants to. You've met Natasha before. Tony can be sarcastic, but he truly means well. Bruce can be selectively mute at times."

Anne rests her head against the window glass, "I should have listened to you. You were so right."

"We can only change our future. Not the past. What's done is done," Clint calmly states. "We have a few minutes before we get to the Avengers' Tower, and then we'll get your injuries taken care of." 

She panics a little, fresh tears threatening to fall, "I forgot clothes."

"I'm sure we can ask if Natasha is willing to part with a set of pajamas. Or if not, I can lend you a t-shirt and some shorts." Clint replies. 

Anne's eyes start to feel heavy as the smooth movements of the car lull her into a feeling of safety. Her eyelids start to droop, and eventually completely close. The car's movements slow as Clint pulls into the Stark Tower underground parking garage and parks. 

Clint moves to gently nudge her awake but thinks better of it, "Anne? We're here. It's time to wake up."

She yawns as she stretches her arms, briefly forgetting about her shoulder.

She winces as the stretching tears the deep gash open, "Can we get medical attention now?"

He nods, "The doctors aren't here, but Bruce has some medical training. Come on. I can take your bag because your shoulder is obviously injured." 

Anne shivers as she feels the beginning of subdrop to hit. She is aware of every nerve in her body and the pain is amplified by ten. Clint notices, and gently places his arm around her. He patiently leads her to the elevator and lets her get in first. They quickly arrive to the residential floors where Bruce is waiting.

"Hello, Anne. Clint has been telling us about you. All good things of course!" Bruce says, lulling Anne into a mild sense of security. "If you want, we can take care of your wounds in your room. I have mostly everything set up, and Clint can get anything else I might need. Everybody else is in their respective rooms to give you some privacy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated. No pressure though <3


	3. Cosmogyral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cosmogyral (adj): whirling around the universe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Subspace: a positive emotion of lightweightedness that occurs after a good domming session  
> Subdrop: a negative state of mind that results from being put into subspace without being offered aftercare

Anne nervously follows Bruce. How much did Clint tell them about her? Did he tell them how she was weak enough to be swept up into Brock's lies? Or how she suddenly became colorblind to any red flags the second a dominant showed her a sliver of affection? What if he thought she was weak?

Her mind races as she absentmindedly sits down on to the bed. Nothing really mattered at this point. It was not enough but too much at the same time. Clint shouldn't care. Especially after what she said to him. He shouldn't care whether she was injured or not. She's a bad sub. _Bad sub_. How many times had she heard that from Brock? So many times that it grew to be the truth. She was a bad sub for not having dinner on the table at exactly 6:30 pm. 

_Anne rushed to start dinner for Brock, despite them having more than enough leftovers. He would be home at 6:30, and would most likely be in a bad mood. If anything was even slightly less than perfect, she would be in for a world of pain. A world of mental and physical anguish. She knew that she was only allowed to cook for Brock. Not herself. She only got to eat if--and only if--she was a good submissive._

_Each night went the same exact way: start dinner, change clothes, refresh makeup, finish dinner, set the table, and tidy up the house. Then, she would kneel by the door and wait for Brock to come home. Lord help her if Brock was late and dinner was lukewarm. That night, Brock had been in a bad mood. Most likely, one of his deals went south. Anne flinches as he slams his briefcase down--strike number one. She prays to whatever God that might be out there that Brock had not noticed. He noticed._

_"What gives my slut the right to flinch? Huh?" Brock sneers. "Well? Answer your Master when I talk to you, Bitch."_

_Anne attempts to make herself smaller, "Your slut does not have the right to flinch, Master."_

_A sadistic fire--comparable to the fires of hell--lights up in Brock's eyes, "That's right. And does Slut know what that means?"_

_He loved her. Loved. He used to love her. When had that changed? When was--_

Bruce's concerned brown eyes study her blue ones. Concern. Huh. She had never seen that with Brock. She was well acquainted with rage, disgust, and lust. But never concern. 

"Anne? Did you hear me?" Bruce says softly.

Her head shoots up, "What? I'm so sorry! I'm a bad sub. I will be better for you, I promise!"

Bruce looks shocked, "Hey, no. You're not a bad submissive. I asked if you could remove your blouse so I can check your shoulder."

She nods, "Of course."

Bruce turns to face the opposite direction as Anne struggles to take off her shirt. She eventually wrestles herself out of it.

"Bruce? It's okay to turn around now," She says softly. 

He turns around before wincing at the deep gash on her shoulder. He telegraphs his moves as he reaches for the First-Aid kit and pulls out gauze and bandages. He gently cleans the wound with a warm cloth and mild soapy water.

Anne flinches, "I'm so sorry! I flinched! I'm never supposed to do that. I'm bad!"

Bruce hums, "No. You are not bad. It's okay to flinch. It's a natural response to pain and fear."

She takes a deep breath, and shakily nods, "Can we just get this over with? I want to go to sleep."

Bruce hums, "Okay. So good news. You won't need stitches. Bad news, your shoulder will hurt like hell for a few days."

"It's not like I haven't experienced it before." Anne pessimistically retorts.

"While I'm wrapping your shoulder, do you mind telling me the last time you went into subspace?" Bruce says. 

Anne nods as she watches Bruce gently but firmly place the gauze and wrap the medical tape around the wound, "It has been a while since I've actually been in subspace. I just remember it hurting too much with Brock to actually go into it. If I did--which I tried not to--the drops were the worst. H-he didn't believe in aftercare."

Bruce's eyes flicker green for a millisecond, "You know this was none of your fault right?"

"So I've been told by Clint," She replies. 

Bruce chuckles slightly, "Well, it's true. Are there any more injuries?"

"Nope," Anne says rocking her legs gently. 

"Alright then. Have you had dinner yet?" Bruce asks as he begins to clean up the supplies.

Anne reaches to help Bruce, "No?"

He nods, "I'm pretty sure Clint is making some stirfry. He usually makes extra in case anybody else wants some."

Anne nods before leaving the room and heading to the kitchen. She notices that Clint has his hearing aids out--most likely to give her some privacy--and taps the counter to get his attention. 

He looks up before signing, "I made enough. Do you want some?"

She signs back, "Sure. Will you have enough for the others?"

"Most definitely," He signs.

Anne smiles and jokingly signs, "When did you learn how to cook?"

Clint laughs, "If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

"Yeah, yeah. Secret spy shit," She signs while laughing.

He laughs even harder, "Do you want to meet the others? Or do you want to eat and then have alone time?"

"Maybe tomorrow?" Anne says.

Clint hands her a bowl of stirfry and sits down with his own bowl, "That's perfectly okay. Remember when we were kids and you drank a puddle?"

"You FORCED me to drink the puddle!" Anne signs quickly. 

He raises his eyebrow, "I don't remember forcing you to drink the puddle."

Anne glares, "You threatened to tell Grams that I wanted her to braid my hair."

He smirks, "So you agree that I didn't force you to drink the puddle..."

"Oh fuck off," Anne signs jokingly. 

Bruce walks by the kitchen and heads to what Anne presumes to be his room.

She quickly finishes up her food before signing, "Goodnight, Cousin It."

Clint flips her off before signing, "Goodnight, Chaos."

Anne sticks her tongue out at him before heading to her new room. She finally lays down, and prays that she won't be plagued by dreams of Brock's cruelty. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated. No pressure though <3


	4. Meeting Mr. Douchebag

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I've been gone so long! I've been having a bad bout of writer's block!

Anne's heartbeat races as her breath comes in heavy pants. Phantom pains flash amongst the myriad of scars her limbs hold. Breathing exercises come to mind in an attempt to calm down. 

Her mind races. _I have to get away. I'm not safe here. Brock will find me, and this time he'll hurt Clint. I can't risk it. It would be better if I left._

Anne rushes to her closet, tears welling in her eyes. She throws on the clothes nearest to her, and grabs what little money she has. Surely it can't be that hard to sneak out unnoticed. The door clicks quietly as it closes shut behind her. She will wait to put her shoes on until she gets out of the building. It would be impossible to get caught. 

She quietly pads down the hallways. A floorboard creaks under her foot. Anne senses a presence behind her. The mysterious presence seems to be an unfamiliar type of dominance. Clint was familial and quite gentle with the warmth of a fireplace on a cold winter's day. This person was like steel--unfamiliar, unyielding, but still able to be shaped. 

She turns sharply, "Reveal yourself! Who are you? I know how to fight! I'm not afraid of you!"

"I will not fight you, doll. Although, I will ask what you are doing outside your room" The strange man asks. 

Anne pauses, "I don't believe that is any of your business, Mister."

"Mister Barnes, or you may call me Bucky. I live here and I want to make sure you don't kill me," he replies, his voice hushed. 

"I'm Clint's sister. I've had a rough time," Anne mumbles.

Bucky nods, but doesn't push Anne to specify, "You didn't answer my question. Why are you out of your room?"

Anne pauses, "I was leaving."

"But why?" Bucky's tone was gentle but firm. 

She hesitates before mumbling, "I'm scared of my ex finding me and hurting Clint."

He pauses before pulling out a chair for Anne to sit in, and sits down in his own chair. Anne hesitantly sits down, her body tense--waiting for any sudden move. The man is at least six feet tall, and could easily harm her without breaking a sweat. Her eyes catch the tell tale glint of metal as his shirt sleeve rides up. Bucky senses her discomfort and quickly hides his arm, attempting to seem less threatening. 

Bucky clears his throat, "Clint will be fine. Let us help you. Just tell me who your ex is, and I'll help you."

Anne pauses, looking down at her hands, "Brock Rumlow. He would seriously hurt you guys. I can't risk anyone being hurt because of me. I'd rather be hurt."

Bucky frowns, "No one needs to be hurt. I have contacts to deal with Rumlow."

"Still--" Anne objects.

He nods, and takes a deep breath, "If you still want to go, at least let me set you up with a protective detail and an apartment. Also, I would prefer you let Clint know so he isn't beside himself searching for you."

"Okay, Mr. Barnes. I will stay for the rest of tonight just so I can tell Clint, but I don't need a protective detail or apartment. I'm a big girl," Anne says with a small amount of harshness in her voice. 

Barnes raises his eyebrows in surprise, "I know you're an independent omega, but it would make Clint feel better to know that you're okay."

Anne glares as Bucky brings up the Clint card, "Fine."

He smiles and stands up, "So, do you want a snack or something?"

"Nope. I'm going to bed," Anne replies shortly.

Anger seeps through Anne's body as she thinks of how Bucky ruined her one chance to protect her brother. 

She can try leaving later when Mr. Douchebag Barnes goes to bed. He's not going to stop her from protecting her brother. Who does he think he is> He should be going to bed soon. Anne hears heavy footsteps walking down the hall towards his room. 

Anne quickly packs up the essential items and writes Clint a short note in her elegant Victorian era script--full of loops and curves:

Clint--I'm leaving to protect you. Don't try to find me. 

Tears slide down Anne's face as she carefully tucks the note under the bedside lamp. She quietly slips on her shoes and woolen coat. 

Anne quietly pads over to the elevator before deciding against it in case Mr. Douchebag alarmed it. She decides on the stairs and steels herself for the long descent. It will be okay. Everyone will be safe. Clint will be okay. Brock can't get to him.

Anne's ribs ache as she walks down the physically taxing stairs. Her breaths come out in labored pants and wheezes as she feel her lungs constricting. Black spots dance in front of her eyes and the rumble of the vents becomes a cacophony of unintelligible noises. Fuck. She shouldn't have done this. Now she'll die in a sweaty stairwell. 

Heavy footsteps rush down the stairs as Mr. Douchebag catches her as her head is about to slam into the railing. He looks mildly irritated, but picks Anne up.

His voice is low as he practically growls out, "I should get you to the med-bay. That was a pretty damn stupid move to try going down the stairs with bruised ribs. I can't believe the amount of self-sacrificing bullshit that both you and Cap have. To top that off, I'm going to have to wake the big guy."

Anne looks unamused, "Are you going to stop bitching? I'm fine. Let me leave."

This time Bucky actually growls, "Are we calling almost passing out in the stairwell 'Fine' now? I know times have changed since the 1940s but not that much."

When Mr. Douchebag reaches the med-bay, he doesn't sit Anne down even though she is glaring daggers at him. Rather, he carries he to wake up Bruce and Clint. Anne squirms as Bucky starts to walk towards Clint's room, but all he does is shift his grip and keep walking. 

Anne rumbles indignantly, "Fuck you! Let me down you mean son of a bitch!"

Bucky huffs, "Hey! My mom wasn't a bitch. You coulda' called me a bastard though."

Anne squirms until she hears Clint's sharp rebuke, "Anne! I sure hope you aren't giving Bucky any trouble especially after trying to sneak out via the stairs with bruised ribs. I'm very disappointed in you!"

Bucky gently places her down on her feet as tears spring to her eyes--from both pain and guilt. She shuffles over to Clint's side and gingerly hugs him. 

Clint nods before addressing Anne gently, "I want you to know that I'm not going to allow you to wallow in your own guilt. I will discipline you after Bruce checks you out, and then I believe you owe Bucky an apology."

Anne's head shoots up as she glares at Clint, "I'm not apologizing to Mr. Douchebag!"

Clint's eyebrows shoot up as he quickly pulls her closer and delivers five sharp swats to her sweatpant clad backside.

Anne continues to glare even as Bruce walks in.

Bruce yawns, "So what's the problem?"

"My ribs are bothering me," Anne mumbles, trying to downplay the severity.

Bucky chokes on his water, "You almost passed out on the fucking stairs!"

Anne glares at Bucky, "Oh shut the fuck up, Mr. Douchebag! It wasn't that bad!"

Clint sighs as he twists her and lands five more swats, "Don't get yourself into more trouble."

Bruce sighs and gestures for Bucky and Clint to leave so he can examine Anne's ribs.

"Okay. I just need you to slip your shirt off so I can look at your ribs. I also need to get a respiration count, especially since you almost passed out" Bruce explains.

Anne winces as she tries to take her shirt off before lowering her arms in defeat. Bruce nods and helps her remove her t-shirt.

She whimpers as Bruce lifts the t-shirt, "Are you mad at me too? I know Bucky was just trying to help."

"I'm not mad, just--" Bruce starts before Anne interrupts.

"Disappointed" She continues. "I feel bad for being so mean to Mr. Barnes."

Bruce nods, "I'm sure he understands that you're scared and in pain."

He probes at Anne's ribs, noting when she winces or flinches away, "Almost done, Anne. I think you just need to take it easy."

Anne whimpers, "Does that mean Clint can't punish me?"

"No but you'll need to be careful." Bruce supplies. "Do you want me to call them back in after we get your shirt back on?"

Anne nods, and winces as the movement jostles her ribs. 

Clint and Bucky walk in, and they both note her tear-stained cheeks. 

Anne slowly stands, "Mr. Barnes?"

Bucky turns towards Anne, "Yes? You may call me Bucky. Mr. Barnes is my father."

"I'm sorry for being so rude to you, and calling you Mr. Douchebag and a mean son of a bitch," Anne says quietly.

He looks shocked but nods, "I accept your apology."

Anne turns towards Clint nervously, "I'm sorry, Clint. I want--no, I need--you to punish me. Please." 

Clint's eyebrows raise and he nods. 


End file.
